"Barry N. Malzberg - Gehenna" - читать интересную книгу автора (Malzberg Barry N)

came in late, dressed all wrong, his hands stretching his pockets out of
shape. He was already very drunk.
She was there with a boy named Vincent who meant little to her but
who played the mandolin beautifully and sang her love songs. If the songs
were derivative and the motions a trifle forced—well, it was a bad period
for both of them and she took what comfort she could. But when her
husband-to-be came over and spoke to her—his name was Edward as it
turned out—she could see beyond his embarrassment and her misery that
a certain period of her life and of the mandolin player's was over. He
wanted her telephone number but because she didn't believe in telephones
she gave him her address instead while Vincent was off changing his
clothes. She told him that she was very unsure of herself.
Three days later, while she was still in bed, he came with flowers and
candy and told her that he could not forget her. With a smile she invited
him in and the first time was very good—better than it had been with
Vincent, anyway. Edward was gone when Vincent came later that evening
and she told him that she had been lusting after the sea all her life—now
she at least had found a pond. Then she told him what she and Edward
had done. He wept and cursed her. He told her that she had betrayed
everything of importance, the small reality they had built together—but
she was firm. She said that lines must be drawn for once and for all
between the present and the possible.
After that she saw nothing of either Vincent or Edward for a week. Then
Edward came with a suitcase. He said he had moved out of his parents’
home and had come to marry her. She did not marry him right away but
they lived together for some weeks—one evening she found a note in her
mailbox, just like that, saying that Vincent had committed suicide.
She never found out who had sent the note and she never told Edward
anything. But a week later they were married in Yonkers and went to a
resort upstate, where they were happy for a few days.
They came back and bought furniture for her flat. He dropped out of
astronomy and became an industrial research assistant— or something
like that.
For a long time her days were simple—they were, as a matter of fact,
exactly like the days she had known just before she met Edward—and the
nights were good, pretty good anyway. Then she became pregnant in a
diffierent sort of way and eventually the child, Ann, was born—a perfect
child with small hands and a musical capability. Edward said that they
would have to find a real home, now—he was very proud—but she said
that the old life could keep up, at least until Ann was ready for school. But
one night he came home early, very excited and—just like that— told her
that he had found them a home in the suburbs. She told him that this was
fine. He said that he was very happy, and she said the same.
They moved to the suburbs and were content for a while, what with car
pools and bridge and whatnot, as well as good playmates and a healthy
environment for Ann. But Edward, for no reason, began to get more, and
more depressed and one morning when she awoke to find his bed empty,
she went into the bathroom to find him slumped over the bathtub, him,
wrists open, blood all over the floor, a faint, fishlike look of appeal in his
stunned and disbelieving eyes.